Things Just Keep Going Downhill
by Tiruneko
Summary: "I don't really know anymore." The Memory Plague. The last bacterial war humanity will ever fight. But who can fight what they don't even remember? Well, someone remembers. And he'll find the only other person he knows remembers, even if it kills him. Besides, he has nothing left to lose now. Except of course, the cure. And the girl that just happens to come with it.


Things Just Keep Going Downhill

x-OnE-x

I don't really know anymore.

Such a common phrase, said just as commonly as, "Hello" or "Hey". Such a simple phrase, such a small little thing to turn into such a harbinger of decay. If you would try and count all the things you'd lost, or rather, ever even had at all, you'd forget what you were doing before you even got started.

It's like the world has become a giant chasm, swallowing the bounds of human consciousness. A vacuum, taking even the simplest things away in the blink of an eye. So many little phrases, so many little things lost. Oh, and there's the big things too. The big gaps, the tiny little holes poked into every paper, eventually, the paper just rips.

It's known to_ him_ as the Memory Plague.

No one's ever remembered long enough to name the disease. Virus, bacteria, parasite, no scientist has ever remembered long enough to even begin research. Who can research something they don't even remember? That's how it goes, and before you even know what's happening- poof.

Dead.

But he remembers. Every agonizing minute of the Memory Plague, the last battle humanity will ever face. And let me tell you, it's a downhill one.

How it spreads, is there a cure, type of infection? Nope. Nothing. The only thing known to the last few, is memory loss.

Then the spasms. Then the insanity. Then the blood. Then… well… let's hope you remembered to bring a gun.

A large breeze hisses though the vastly empty field of wheat, illuminated by the pale orange light flickering from the setting sun. A blonde boy with long hair tucked into a high pony tail pulls the strap of his heavy backpack up, only carrying the black bag over one arm. A brown oversized windbreaker flaps around his lean frame. He raises his free hand to hold the sun's glare out of his crystal blue eyes, squinting off at the mountains in the distance and crumbling remains of city skyscrapers.

It's quieter here. But there are things in the city, necessities. And then there's her. In the city beyond the mountains. The Twin City. Fitting name.

Bellow the mountains where the sun is slipping behind is a house. A small, run-down, one story silhouette of an old farm house, considered ancient even before the Memory Plague. The boy decides he'll stay there.

The fabric of his slightly now oversized jeans swish against each other as he continues to walk, nearly tripping over his shoe laces a few times. Sighing, he bends, retying the laces of the grey and white sneakers before continuing to walk.

If he'd try to count all the things he'd lost… there'd be too many to name. He remembers. Photographically. And she does too. If only he'd had just held onto her hand…

The house is closer now, and the boy, squinting even harder against the harsh scream of the now red setting sun, can make out a red bike leaning against the side of the house. The thought that someone could be inside is slightly saddening. They're either infected, nearly dead, or dead already. It would be too hard to be asked to shoot someone you've just met.

Most people want to die with the small memories they still have. Some don't even remember what's happening to them.

Those are the lucky ones.

"_Don't come too close, you'll get infected!" _The impending scenario plays out in his mind.

"_No._" He'll take out the gun. "_Do you remember your name?" _They'll shake their head very slowly, or stutter out a shaky and unsure reply.

Then they'll turn to face him, smiling sadly. "_Thank you._" They'll say, tears clogging their speech. _"Take whatever you want after I'm gone, whatever you think isn't infected. It's all yours… I can't thank you enough. I-I don't want to die alone!" _

They'll begin to sob, partially out of gratefulness, partially out of fear of what's next. Then he'll shoot, and they'll die much more peacefully, even if it's not a clear shot.

The boy snaps out of his tragic day dream he's faced too many times before, his eyes noticing an irregularity in the tall and fuzzy-looking wheat crops. One thin line drags right through the tall plant, leading to exactly where the bike is leaning now. The boy's heart sinks. He's not going to just find a body. There'll be a person. Infected. Pretty much gone already. At least he's here to do them a last kindness, even if they don't even remember why they want to die.

The fair golden haired boy tugs his black backpack higher on his broad shoulders and climbs slowly and quietly up the steps to the old farmhouse. The roof has caved in the back, the windows covered with rotting wood, the door handle rusted and crooked, the wood on the porch practically ready to fall in. The remains of a purple curtain flutters out of the now boarded up window. Not bad, considering.

Waiting to hear painted sobs or last words, the boy stands silently. There isn't a single noise. He raises his hand and, hesitating slightly at the last moment, knocks.

"Hello?" A small squeal becomes audible from inside as well as the noise of footsteps scrambling on wood.

"Are you infected?" The voice calls from inside. Female.

"No." The boy replies simply.

"Don't come too close, okay?" A long pause comes between the two, standing on either side of the door. "…You can come in."

"_That's new._" He thinks, placing a palm flat against the cold and splintering wood of the door. As he expected, the door handle doesn't even need to be turned.

As he takes one step into the shadowy home, his eyes yet again find themselves squinting. From the caved in portion of the roof, one large, heavenly beam of orange and yellow light streams down, illuminating the direct center of the one-room home, casting a thick shadow against the rather tall figure standing inside. As the boy's eyes adjust to the light, he gasps slightly.

In the center of the room is a girl, with ghastly long hair, passing just further than her knees. She is wearing dark blue skinny jeans and two mismatched boots, lacing up to the middle of her calf, one brown, one black. A thin and comfortable looking black long sleeved shirt is handing off her rather scrawny and dainty frame. Her face is fair and her eyes are a bright and very vibrant turquoise to match the startling shade of her nearly neon hair. Her lips are cracked and the sleeves of her shirt are rolled up, revealing a red bracelet on her right wrist.

Clasped in her left hand is a silver permanent marker, and written all up and down her arms in thick and small, scraggly handwriting are words and words and words. Some in black, some in colors, some faded. On the floor behind her is a very full beige colored leather messenger bag.

The girl's head is turned slightly sideways as she too, silently observes the boy. She's the first to speak.

"I like your jacket."

"Thanks." The boy responds blandly, treading cautiously.

After another brief moment of silence in the conversation, the girl speaks again. "You know, after I compliment something about you, you're supposed to return the favor and compliment something about me."

The boy is slightly taken aback, and at the same time amused. He cracks a small smile and responds with emotion this time. "… _Interesting _hair."

The girl giggles at him, a bubbly and genuine giggle. She raises her right hand, the one with the bracelet, and covers her mouth as she laughs. The boy smiles at her.

"So…" She starts with a more serious tone, "…are you by yourself?" Her wording is interesting to him.

"Yeah. You?" She nods.

"… Are you infected?" She asks him grimly, but still maintaining her overall positive air.

"No."

The long haired girl chuckles. "You're very lucky."

"You must be too."

"Oh…" She chuckles again, shaking her head no. "… You see, I'm the luckiest of them all. You wanna' know why?" She leans closer, grinning slightly.

Curious, and for the first time in a while, not the least bit overly cautious or fearful, he nods. The girl bends down to her bag, and, for a moment, the boy tenses, reaching for his back pocket, worried she's going for a weapon. Instead, when she rights herself, clasped in her hand is a white container the size of a mason jar, but slightly wider. It rattles as she moves.

"… I have the cure."


End file.
